Rib by D

“Some mornings, I still see her silhouette in the kitchen. An outline of knee socks and swaying curves waltzing with the air particles around her to Breezeblocks. I often trace the elegant grip of her unvarnished nails around the frying pan and spatula, as she forgets how to flip a pancake to the tune. She has always been the clumsy one; up to her knees and elbows in flour and a burnt tongue shying away its desire to be stung again had it meant a kiss after the other, I would kiss her anyway. I would tell her about the thing I have for her hair tied up in a messy bun, as her fingertips find their ways to the roots of the hair follicles near the back of my neck. I’d pull her in by her waists as my hands lift the bottom of that over-sized T-shirt of mine, precisely the way she likes it. I’d feel the curve of her lips against my own as I whisper “Darling, your coffee is awaiting”. Soon after, she’d sink into my lap with her favorite mug caressed between her trembling palms and speak of poetry like God; like she fears the sky will soon catch up with us had we not held each other close enough. I hold her closer. I tell her of the constellation of cigarettes burns down my arms. A tale for each crack in her voice. I assure her she is not alone, butIt’s 9 AM and I’m reawakened by the sound of the toaster and the scent smothering the air I breathe. I wonder if she is alone. I wonder why I still make toast for her and have breakfast for two, with the knowledge we are not the lovers we used to be. Yet, I still hear her voice at the back of my head, whispering, “Honey, I’m home”.
I’m beginning to trip on the scattered ruins of my ribs. I couldn’t even get myself to step out the door. Last night, I fell asleep in my mother’s sweater and my father’s cologne, but the closest I’ll ever be to home is to be in her arms again.”